


The Last Time

by CannibalKats



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 06:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6554950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CannibalKats/pseuds/CannibalKats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a oneshot with my Not-Inquisitor Lavellan Willow. Shortly after Kirkwall's Chantry explodes Samson finds his usual sources for a Lyrium fix have scattered and, not for the first time, he finds himself knocking at Willow's door looking for a fix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Time

**Author's Note:**

> Reminder In my canon Carver Hawke is a Templar that joins the Wardens after the Chantry explosion in Kirkwall. Willow is a former Tevinter Slave, who is Dalish but also one of Varric's spies (I do have some things that cover this in the works I promise). Willow comes to Kirkwall as one of the people Varric has looking for his brother and ends up staying. I imagine she probably volunteers at Anders' clinic.

“You can’t keep coming here like this.”

She’s frowning at him, washed out and ghost-like in the blue light of the glowstone she holds and he just stands there in her doorway shrugging. He might as well have his hand out like some dark town urchin.

“Samson, in case you haven’t notice Kirkwall has gone to shit, most of my contacts have scattered. I want to help you out.” She’s got a stained sheet pulled tight over her shoulders and he tries not to follow her tattoos with his eyes. She’s snapping her fingers under his nose, too alert for the hour. This time of night, she’s obviously been in bed, he should have woken her.

“Come on Will, you always have my back.” He’s going for charming but it comes off pitiful. 

Either way her face softens. “Honestly Raleigh.” She sighs but she doesn’t budge. Usually she lets him in by now. Usually she’s pouring a drink, and trying to feed him. He squints into the darkness behind her but she snaps her fingers under his nose again. “I’m not kidding, all I have is what my Carta contact could skim after the explosion, it’s not much and you’re not the only templar in Kirkwall that needs a fix.”

“You’re a resourceful woman.”

“And you’re a junkie.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

His laugh is bitter. “You’re right. Still, ouch.”

“You’ve been trying to get clean longer than I’ve been in Kirkwall. I don’t want to fuck you like this Raleigh but I have people counting on me.”

“I’m counting on you.”

“Go in the kitchen I’ll get you something to eat.” She puts the stone in his hand and disappears into the back of the makeshift clinic.

“You call this a kitchen?” He calls out.

“Well it has a stove,” she calls back, there’s a muffled groan and a shush from wherever she’s disappeared to.

It’s not so much a room as a corner of the clinic screened off from the rest with old bed sheets. When the elf appears around the corner she’s clothed in a simple cotton gown that she probably just pulled over her sleep clothes, a bottle of Lyrium glows between her fingers. He watches her set it on the table between them.

“You’re a doll,” he reaches out for the bottle but she slaps his hand.

“This isn’t a joke, this isn’t me trying to scare you clean.”

“Who’s back there?”

“You know who it is.”

Raleigh Samson snorts. Of course, the Hawke welp would need to get off Lyrium if he wanted to keep up with his apostate sister.

“You think the Chantry can’t find you here?”

“I think you should let me worry about that,” she smiled at him, that sweet smile she had the first time he’d shown up on her door step trying to get clean, and slid a bowl of porridge across the table. 

He could feel the heat from the bowl and his stomach churned. He felt hungry and sick at the same time, but food he didn’t have to scavenge was a rarity and he wouldn’t waste it. “You were about to make me a deal.”

“This is all I can give you if you just want to take my Lyrium and fuck off. My contacts are in the wind and I don’t know when I can get more.”

He nodded, and pushed the porridge around his bowl waiting for the first bite to settle. “There’s a but in there somewhere.”

“I won’t turn you away if you want to get clean.”

He rolls his bloodshot eyes.

“So you do have more.”

“Not in the way you think I do. I have enough to get our friend safely through the worst of it, and boost my limited skills if I have to. I don’t have enough to nurse you through the easy part. I can’t make that work no matter how I ration it.”

“But the Fereldan Pup—”

“Is not your concern.”

“As long as we’ve known each other,” he scoffs.

“I’ve known him longer,” she says. “Listen Samson, if you want to get yourself clean you ration that and you get yourself here in no more than three weeks. You’re right we can’t stay here forever, two weeks would be more comfortable but I know you.”

“What are you saying Will?”

“Three weeks Raleigh. You get here in 3 weeks I can get you clean, I won’t have a cushion for healing, it’ll be up to chewing elfroot and drinking horrible teas for the pain, and listening to the baby bird squawk, but trust me and we’ll get your there.”

“You think that little thing can get me through three weeks?”

“Like I said, you’re a stubborn fucker. I know you’ll make it last, and I know you’ll wait too long if you decide you’re done.”

The skinny man with the sunken eyes, who used to be a templar, doesn’t answer her. He looks down into his quickly cooling bowl of porridge for an answer and when he gets none he does his best to finish eating it. The little Hawke and the Dalish spy hiding in the abominations clinic. It would be stupid of them to stay any longer than they had to but here she was face all full of earnest concern for him offering to extend that one week for a stubborn old arse like him.

When he stuffs the too small bottle into his pocket she watches him with her too big blue eyes, glowing in the dim light and he honestly considers her offer. When he closes the defunct clinic door behind him he’s practically convinced himself that he’ll be back in two weeks. He’ll make it last, still be useful when he gets there. Help them get safe before the withdrawal is too bad.

He’s half through the bottle in three days and cursing her for swindling him under his breath. By the end of the week the bottle is gone and he starts to think of things he can say to get another from her. Did the little elf really think that would be enough? One more and he’ll get clean like she offered. But those big eyes and her sweet smiles, soft words; had she ever been so kind to him? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe I can make it another week and then do what she says.

And then some Templar bastard has a little bit of charity and drops a bottle in his lap, smaller than the one Willow had given him, and time loses some of its meaning. Then another bottle, and then— has it been two weeks or three. 

The Clinic is empty when he gets there and the usual suspects don’t have anything for him. Even the gossips haven’t seen a silver haired elf and a giant human man. Just a couple rumours about wardens and Raleigh Samson isn’t that desperate yet.

He goes back to his haunt at the docs, some things never change. Kirkwall is a shit hole, and Samson begs at the docks, but maybe that strange templar will be back with another bottle of that potent Lyrium.


End file.
